Hungry for More (2012)

by Chelsea Scott

“Ah, well. It’s only money, right? I guess I don’t pay child support anymore.”

  “Quite,” Bridget answered, a little annoyed by the way that he had phrased his acceptance. “I’m actually quite a bargain,” she said with a bit of wounded pride, “I’m qualified as an elementary school teacher, you know- and I have a first aid certification.”

  Paul didn’t speak, but he flashed her a playful smile.

  He was really rather attractive when he did that. Bridget thought, finally bothering to notice his chocolaty eyes and handsome face.

  Bridget tore her eyes away from her new employer and tried to concentrate on finishing up the dishes, but her gaze kept sneaking sideways. Paul had finished washing, but he was still leaning up against the sink. The front of his shirt was damp and it clung to his torso, hinting at a physique that was toned and lean. Bridget thought that he must get a lot of exercise, although she couldn’t imagine when he found the time!

  “When do you go in to the restaurant?” she asked, hoping to distract herself with conversation.

  Paul shrugged, “Whenever I want. I’m usually there already…but I may wait out the lunch.”

  Bridget nodded, “Good. Do you think you’d be okay with Tad for a half an hour while I pop back and get my things?”

  “Alone?” Paul asked.

  Bridget sighed. She didn’t like the idea any more than he did, but she didn’t think that it would be good for Tad to go back to the old apartment. He might get confused and think he’d gone home to stay.

  “Just for a few minutes,” she told him. “My bags are already packed. I saw that video you had sitting out for him last night. He loves Robot Q & Friends…just pop it on the telly and he won’t give you any problems at all.”

  “But- but-”

  “It’s honestly not that hard,” Bridget said. She summoned a smile, trying to instill some self-assurance in Paul. In truth she didn’t have a great deal of confidence in him herself, not when it came to looking after his young son anyway, but she would have to take a risk.

  “But what if he needs something?” Paul asked lamely, following Bridget as she walked out of the kitchen.

  “Then you’ll get it for him, or help him with whatever he needs. I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out,” she said. “I promise not to be long. Tad!” At her call, the little boy appeared. “What do you have to say to your daddy?” she prompted.

  Tad looked up at her. He hesitated for a moment, but after a nod and an encouraging smile from his nanny the little boy turned to his father.

  “Thank you for my breakfast, Daddy,” he said obediently, as if he had been practicing the words over in his head. Bridget relaxed a bit when he added more naturally, “You got the yellow bit of the egg just right on your first try!”

  Bridget thought she saw Paul’s lips twitch in an uncertain smile. “Thanks. Uhm…how do you like your… yellow bit?”

  “Gooey!”

  Paul nodded. “I’ll remember,” he assured his son.

  Bridget took advantage of this promising moment to remind Tad that she had to go and pick up her things. He was obviously reluctant to let her go, but she managed to distract him with the promise of his favorite television show, and sent father and son off to watch it together.

  Bridget crossed her fingers and hurried out to her waiting cab. She prayed that Tad would still be in one piece when she got back to Paul’s apartment. She really shouldn’t have to worry this much about leaving the boy in the care of his father.

  It didn’t take long to get to Phoebe’s old brownstone. Bridget was already packed. She wasn’t sad about leaving Phoebe’s house now that she knew that she could stay with Tad. Phoebe’s place was slightly cozier than Paul’s apartment, but the difference was negligible. Most of the homey touches around the place were attributable to Bridget. Phoebe had never been home long enough to add any real imprint of her own. To her, the space had been nothing but a landing pad between Telluride and Los Angeles- and a place to warehouse her son.

  Bridget checked each room for anything that she or Tad might have forgotten. Finding nothing, she moved her suitcases into the front hall and called for a cab. She had ten minutes to kill until it arrived. She drummed her fingers on her thigh and eyed the bag that contained her stash of food. It was English biscuits and sweets mostly, but there were also some chips and dip. She kept a considerable stock. One humiliating day when Phoebe had caught her with them she had had to tell her boss that the only cost-effective way to get them in America was to order in bulk.

  Bridget’s stomach rumbled hungrily. Perhaps she could just have one biscuit, she bargained with herself. She hadn’t eaten for more than a day after all. One biscuit wasn’t going to hurt. She had to start up her metabolism if she wanted to lose any weight at all. Really, it would benefit her to have one biscuit.

  Bridget didn’t remember opening the bag, but she was suddenly sitting with a packet of chocolate Hobnobs in her hand. Her breath quickened a little as she anticipated the first bite of sweet chocolate and oat biscuit. She ripped the packet open and portioned out one biscuit, already knowing that she would eat at least two. Two turned into four, and four into half the packet… two thirds of the packet… it was silly to repack so few biscuits, so she decided to polish them off.

  Utterly disgusted with herself, and on the verge of tears, Bridget decided that the damage was already done. Even though she was no longer hungry, she started on a bag of Fritos.

  She was near the bottom of the bag when the buzzer sounded, informing her that the cab was downstairs.

  Bridget crumpled the cellophane bag, crammed it into the trash, and then wiped her greasy fingers on a rag. She felt sick to her stomach and absolutely disgusted by what she’d done, but there was no way to undo the damage. She simply pledged to do better.

  Gathering the shreds of her dignity, Bridget dabbed her eyes, and then began the task of lugging her baggage down to the waiting car.

  Despite her promises to Paul, Bridget was gone for close to an hour and a half. She had taken a bit longer at the apartment than she’d intended, and then her taxi was stuck in traffic on the way back Uptown. She was feeling very anxious as they neared the apartment- and even more so when she stepped inside and discovered Tad watching videos alone.

  “Where is your father?” she asked, a little more sharply than she’d intended.

  Tad didn’t turn around. “In the kitchen,” he told her as his eyes remained glued to the screen.

  Bridget exhaled. She supposed that was permissible- although, she wondered if Paul could hear Tad’s call over the din of the cartoon.

  “Mr. Devoe?” she asked, testing her theory.

  As she expected, he didn’t answer. Then again, he didn’t seem to notice when she repeated her call while standing five feet behind him either. He was standing over the stove, absolutely intent on his cooking- and otherwise oblivious to the world.

  She actually had to tap him on the shoulder to make him turn around. When he did, he blinked in surprise like a man coming out of a trance.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she murmured, taking a step away. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m back.”

  “Already?” Paul asked.

  Bridget nodded at the clock, and his expression turned sheepish. “Oh.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry that I was delayed. The traffic…” her excuse died on her lips when Paul turned around to the stove again. “Right. Well…it seems like everything went okay?”

  “It was fine,” Paul responded. “Tad’s just been watching TV.” Paul reached for a plate, which he covered with an amazing looking sandwich and then topped it with a lid to keep it warm. “He said that he was hungry. It’s a bit early, but he didn’t eat much breakfast.”

  Bridget nodded. She was beginning to suspect that the cooking was more for Paul’s benefit than for his son’s. The practice obviously soothed him, and it was the one area of parenting in which he was more than competent.

  “Shall I call hi
m in?”

  “Yeah. Please…” Paul said, distracted as he fooled around with a different pan. Bridget left him while she went back to the living room to collect her charge. She took Tad to wash his hands and then led him back to the table. Paul was just loading down the plate with a pile of sizzling homemade potato chips.

  “Here you go,” Paul said, sounding hopeful as he sat the dish in front of his son. “I kept it simple this time.”

  Bridget bit her lip as she waited for Tad’s reaction. She silently prayed that it wouldn’t be as bad as breakfast! She didn’t want to repeat that disaster again.

  “What is it?” Tad asked, prodding the bread with his finger.

  Bridget was about to reassure him that it was merely a hot ham and cheese sandwich- but Paul beat her to the pass.

  “It’s a uckish-monsieur,” he told his son.

  As Bridget had feared, the little boy’s features instantly screwed up in suspicion and disgust.

  “A what?”

  She turned to take in Paul’s expression. His cheeks were coloring. She feared that another burst of temper was coming on. She couldn’t imagine how hard he had worked to think of something that the little boy would love! She was desperate to prevent the scene which looked about to unspool, and so she blurted without thinking:

  “A croak-monsieur,” she told the little boy. “Daddy made it special for Frog.”

  “Frog?” Paul and Tad both asked at the same time.

  Bridget spoke quickly, desperate to smooth things over. “Yes…for Mr. Frog. Here…let me give him his plate.”

  Paul looked at Bridget as though he thought she was insane when she pretended to pick a separate plate up off of the counter and then mimed setting it down in the space at Atherton’s right.

  “See!” she exclaimed happily. “He loves it! Don’t you Frog? Oh, FROG! Don’t eat so fast- you’ll get a tummy ache!”

  Tad giggled at his nanny’s feigned annoyance, and so she kept it up. “FROG! You’re getting that all over your clothes! Slow down! I’m sure that Daddy will make you another!”

  “Yes…” Paul said, picking up on Bridget’s idea. “Here you go…” he pretended to sprinkle something over the imaginary bread. “I made you one with extra flies.”

  “There are flies in croak-mushyour?” Tad said, looking wary again.

  Paul looked to Bridget, his gaze anxious and questioning.

  “Er…only on Frog’s sandwich,” she decided. This seemed to be the correct response.

  “What is in it?” Tad asked, still unconvinced.

  Bridget deferred to Paul.

  “Parma-!” he began, but then stopped himself. “Er…ham,” he said, without any descriptors, “and cheese and butter and bread.”

  Tad considered. “I like bread and cheese. Do I like ham, Nanny?”

  “Yes, dear,” she said, encouragingly. She was relieved when he took a tiny nibble from the corner.

  She and Paul both waited breathlessly for the verdict. It was given when Tad took a second bite.

  “I think Frog is right, Nanny,” he said happily, “croak-mushyours are good to eat.” He turned toward his father. “May I have some flies after all please?”

  No one could resist Tad when he was being this angelic, Bridget thought. Her heart felt warm and pleasantly full at the sight of the four-year-old’s smile. She didn’t know how a world famous chef was going to react to being asked to add flies to a sandwich. She was delighted when Paul got his response just right.

  “I only have invisible flies,” he apologized. “I didn’t know that you’d want some…Are you sure that Frog is okay with sharing his flies?”

  “Of course, Daddy!” Tad answered with a serious expression. “He’ll let you give them to me!”

  Paul nodded and then pretended to put a liberal sprinkling of invisible flies on top of Tad’s sandwich. “Extra crunchy,” he told him, “Just the way that I like them.”

  Tad laughed again, and then went back to eating his sandwich. He even dared to pop a chip into his mouth without prompting. “Hey!” he exclaimed, “These are just like potato chips!”

  It was Paul’s turn to be amused, “That’s what they are, silly.”

  “But potato chips come out of a bag!”

  “Potato chips come from a potato,” Paul responded firmly.

  “You should try one, Nanny!” Tad urged, tempting her with one steaming, golden-brown crisp. It smelled so good that she was practically drooling!

  “Nanny is going to have her own,” Paul responded, setting down a second plate.

  Bridget’s smile disappeared as it was slid in front of her. She licked her lips, imagining what it would be like to actually eat the meal: the crisp, salty slivers of potato…the crusty, buttery bread…the creamy cheese…

  It took a lot of effort to push the meal away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to sound as contrite as possible, “But…I really can’t eat it. Thank you for the effort but-“

  “Why not?” Paul snapped. His expression was truly terrifying when he was annoyed.

  Bridget shrank down in her seat. “I’m…er…”she bit her lip as she fumbled for an excuse. She couldn’t very well own up to the fact that she’d already downed two day’s worth of calories in a fifteen-minute binge! As far as Paul knew, she hadn’t eaten all day! “I’m…on a slimming regime, actually,” she told him, “It’s really tempting though.”

  “You’re on a diet?” Paul asked. He looked honestly gobsmacked. She had to love him a little for that. “Why?”

  She looked down at the counter, avoiding his gaze. Of course, it was painfully obvious. She was five-foot four and a size sixteen American! Obviously she could afford to lose a pound…or forty.

  Atherton spared her the need to respond. “Nanny never eats anything,” he announced, helpfully. Bridget breathed a sigh of relief, but it was too soon. Tad quickly continued, “Except biscuits! One time we were having tea and Nanny ate the whole box.”

  “Tad!” Bridget snapped, humiliated. She lied: “I did not!”

  “Eat your food,” Paul said quietly, apparently picking up on her discomfort. “I’ll make you a salad,” he told Bridget, “Oil and vinegar dressing okay?”

  “Hold the oil,” she said miserably as he took away the sandwich. A few minutes later he replaced it with a bowl of greens.

  Ordinarily, Bridget wouldn’t have dared to put so much as one bite of food into her mouth when someone was watching- especially when that someone was an attractive man! However, she was feeling guilty for snubbing the sandwich, and decided that she must look like a martyr anyways, having turned down the buttery treat. Feeling painfully self-conscious, she picked up her fork and took a bite.

  Paul Devoe must have earned his reputation as an amazing chef. This was the first time in her entire life that Bridget could say that she was honestly enjoying a salad!

  She didn’t know what kinds of greens he had used. The dark, smooth leaves were unfamiliar to her, but she did recognize the crunch of bok choy that he had used instead of croutons, and the pleasant bite of a very high-quality balsamic vinegar that had been applied as dressing.

  “Well?” Paul asked.

  Bridget looked up, surprised to find that he was waiting on her reaction.

  “It’s delicious!” she told him- and there was no doubt that she meant it. She was still stuffed to bursting from her apartment binge, but she managed to finish the salad in a shamefully short amount of time.

  Bridget insisted on doing the dishes (shamefully scarfing down the leftover portion of Tad’s chips and sandwich when she was finally alone, and unsurprised to find that it was completely amazing!). When she finished, she was shocked and unexpectedly upset, to discover that Paul had changed to head in to work.

  “You’re leaving?” she asked, hoping that she didn’t sound as disappointed to Paul as she did to herself.

  “I’m late,” he responded, looking stressed and distracted. “I should have been there hours ago. N
o telling how much of a cock up those fu-!”

  Bridget looked pointedly at Tad (who, thankfully, didn’t seem to have registered the swearing). Paul looked sheepish.

  “Old habits,” he muttered. “I just want to make sure the staff isn’t…uhm…having trouble.”

  Bridget nodded.

  “What time will you be back?”

  “Don’t wait up,” Paul answered with a casual shrug. Then he was gone.

  Bridget and Tad passed a busy and pleasant afternoon. First, she took Tad to Central Park, as she had promised. The apartment was conveniently close to one of the playgrounds, so she let him run and play until he was worn out. Then she brought him home to nap.

  It started to rain in the late afternoon, and so she unpacked some more of Tad’s toys. She let him play with them in the living room, while she set about “perking up” his quarters.

  One of the tasks that she’d seen to at Phoebe’s apartment was stealing the decorations from his old room. Obviously, Paul didn’t see any problem with storing a four-year-old in a Japanese minimalist bedroom- but she certainly did. She thought that the place looked a lot more cheerful and appropriate with Tad’s dinosaur quilt and sheets, and his triceratops rug. It was a struggle to hang the curtains on her own, but she managed. Her efforts were rewarded by Tad’s obvious delight!

  Paul hadn’t thought to set out dinner, and she couldn’t think of anything to prepare with the fixings on the second shelf, so they had leftover pizza for dinner. Tad took a bath and went to bed at half past eight without any fuss at all, leaving Bridget with the rest of the evening on her own.

  She spent part of the time arranging her own belongings and reading a book. Then, when the clock read one a.m. and Paul still hadn’t made his way home, she decided to go to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  It was another horrendous service for Paul. Just as he had anticipated, none of the prep work was quite ready, or quite right, when he arrived at the restaurant. The kitchen seemed to fall to pieces whenever he wasn’t there getting on everyone’s case. Why couldn’t the lazy morons motivate themselves for a couple of hours?

  “They’re worried about their jobs.”